


Mad as a Hatter

by kenzimone



Category: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, POV Outsider, backdated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10936440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenzimone/pseuds/kenzimone
Summary: I just missed my train.





	Mad as a Hatter

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an assignment for my writing course, in the POV of the nameless man who pulled Christopher off the tracks in chapter 227.

I just missed my train.

I was already running late, and now I'm standing here on the platform watching my train disappear into the tunnel without me on it.

The boy is still sitting on the ground by the bench, one hand clenched in his jacket pocket and the other resting on his chest, covering the tell tale bulge of the rat hiding inside his jacket.

I still can't quite believe that one – pet rat. Damn.

There's a dull throbbing sensation blossoming across the left side of my face, and when I press my handkerchief against my skin it comes back bloody.

I think I must be shaking. Adrenaline, no doubt. When I close my eyes I can still see him trying to scramble back up onto the platform, can hear the roar of the train barreling down the tracks. I don't know where I got the strength to pull him to safety.

There's something wrong with him, no doubt about it. Didn't seem to know what I was trying to do – screamed and squirmed and raked his fingernails down the side of my face even as I was hauling him out of harm's way. Wouldn't let go of his rat, not to save his own life. My youngest is ten, but already has more sense than to pull something that stupid.

I can feel the blood drip down my neck to stain the collar of my shirt. It'll dry in a few minutes. Ruined. I must be a sorry sight.

The long haired woman with the guitar case is standing next to me now, fidgeting. She keeps stealing glances at me, and I realize that she wasn't here to see what happened. She stepped off the train that almost killed him, and all she knows is that I'm bleeding and that he's got a knife.

I consider speaking up, telling her that it isn't what she thinks; that he's a bit slow, stupid even, but not violent. In the end, I don't. I'm tired, and there's another train heading our way – the desire for _home_ is growing stronger than it has in a long while.

When the train stops and the doors open I shoulder past the stream of people stepping off and push my way inside, taking the first empty seat available and ignoring the way the old lady beside me warily eyes my blood stained handkerchief. I know what she's thinking – I would be thinking it too.

It isn't until the train is pulling away from the platform that the thought suddenly strikes me; I was running late.

It's enough to take my breath away.

I was running late. If I'd been on time, I wouldn't have been on that platform when he decided to jump down onto the tracks – I'd been home by now, and he would have been dead.

I turn, hoping to catch a last glimpse of him before the train enters the tunnel, but it's too late. He's already out of sight.


End file.
